But as spring verged on summer, Hermione demanded so much of Cleopis’s care that even Phœnix ceased to be the focus of attention. The lordly Alcmæonid fell into the cus[pg 344]tody of one Niobe, a dark-haired lass of the islands, who treated him well, but cared too much for certain young “serving-gentlemen” to waste on her charge any unreciprocated adoration. So on one day, just as the dying grass told the full reign of the Sun King, she went forth with her precious bundle wriggling in her arms, but her thoughts hardly on Master Phœnix. Procles the steward had been cold of late, he had even cast sly glances at Jocasta, Lysistra’s tiring-woman. Mistress Niobe was ready—since fair means of recalling the fickle Apollo failed—to resort to foul. Instead, therefore, of going to the promenade over the sea, she went—burden and all—to the Agora, where she was sure old Dion, who kept a soothsayer’s shop, would give due assistance in return for half a drachma.
The market was just thinning. Niobe picked her way amongst the vegetable women, fought off a boy who thrust on her a pair of geese, and found in a quiet corner by a temple porch the booth of Dion, who grinned with his toothless gums in way of greeting. He listened with paternal interest to her story, soothed her when she sniffled at Procles’s name, and made her show her silver, then began pulling over his bags and vials of strange powders and liquids.
“Ah, kind Master Dion,” began Niobe, for the sixth time, “if only some philtre could make Procles loath that abominable Jocasta!”
“Eu! eu!” muttered the old sinner, “it’s hard to say what’s best,—powder of toad’s bone or the mixture of wormwood and adder’s fat. The safest thing is to consult the god—”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, my holy cock here, hatched at Delphi with Apollo’s blessings on him.” Dion pointed with his thumb to the small coop at his feet. “The oracle is simple. You cast [pg 345]before him two piles of corn; if he picks at the one to right we take toad’s bone, to left the adder’s fat. Heaven will speak to us.”
“Excellent,” cried Niobe, brightening.
“But, of course, we must use only consecrated corn, that’s two obols more.”
Niobe’s face fell. “I’ve only this half-drachma.”
“Then, philotata,” said Dion, kindly but firmly, “we had better wait a little longer.”